A man rides a mare of blackish hue.
Snow above a sight to behold on a day like yesterday.
Shattered hopes, a million pieces of bleak despair and that bitter
wine, drowning his sorrow in this pit of loneliness.
A cloak of stars wrapped neatly around his frame of mystery.
A sword, one edge for truth, the other for lies.
What does he see? But the ugly truth.
Beauty nothing but illusion, revealed by hard cruel laughter
from a nameless source.
A reflection of a face upon tarnished steel.
Red roses blossom around her still frame.
The knight rides on to a cloud far and away.
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